Inevitable
by ReviewDiaries
Summary: Mycroft, tired of the sexual tension between Sherlock and John, traps them in a lift and leaves them to work out their differences with some interesting results.


"Mycroft," Sherlock hisses into the emergency pad, "this is ridiculous."

"True, but you refused to sit down and solve this as any other sane person might, so I had to resort to slightly more drastic measures."

If this was happening to anyone else, John muses that he would probably find it hysterical. As it is, being trapped in a lift at the whims of yet another feud between Holmes brothers is less fun when you are stuck in the middle of it.

"Mycroft you are acting like an imbecile – let us out of here at once."

"Charming as you are when you want something Sherlock, I think I'm going to decline. It has become unbearable for everyone concerned and you need to resolve this. There is a packet of cigarettes and some whiskey in the emergency hatch – please refrain from setting light to anything."

The intercom cuts out with an ominous click and John is left feeling that if he is trapped in here until Mycroft is satisfied with whatever Sherlock has to resolve then he may as well get used to the idea of dying in here.

"Wait, what is it you're supposed to be resolving?" John eyes Sherlock, who is pacing about with all the barely concealed rage of a caged tiger, and wishes that the lift were a little bigger.

Sherlock glares at him balefully, and continues pacing.

"Right then."

Sherlock lasts half an hour before he breaks down and pulls out the cigarette packet and lighter from the hatch. He eyes the bottle of whiskey for a moment, before closing the hatch again, settling down in the corner like some sort of petulant gargoyle with his collar turned up, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

John lasts another ten minutes before cracking open the whiskey.

Three cigarettes and several slugs of whiskey later John has shed his coat and is busy trying to spin the cap of the bottle in circles on the floor when Sherlock finally speaks.

"Why do you stay with me?"

"I – what?"

"You heard me, why do you stay with me."

John watches him carefully for a moment – there's an edge of vulnerability caught at the curve of Sherlock's lower lip that John cannot tear his eyes away from. Vulnerability and Sherlock are two relatively unacquainted things, and it gives John pause and makes him choose his words carefully before speaking. This is, after all, probably not the time to be making jokes about paying the rent.

"Well – we're friends."

"Are we?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Sherlock takes a few minutes to digest this piece of information, and John takes the opportunity to have another long swig of the whiskey – he has a feeling he's going to need it.

Sherlock is silent for so long that John thinks he must have abandoned the thread of conversation, when Sherlock mutters, so quietly John almost misses it, "I haven't had a friend before."

John can feel a little piece of himself snap off and splinter inside his heart. He doesn't like thinking about Sherlock before – the Sherlock who pissed everyone off and was referred to as freak more than by his name. John saw quite enough of that in the brief encounter with Sebastian Wilkes. Saw enough that he almost punched the man for the look on Sherlock's face when forced to remember his time at university.

"Well you've got me now." John's voice is rougher than he intended it to be, and he coughs quickly to try and cover it, washing it over with another slug of whiskey to burn away the sour taste in his mouth.

"Yes." Sherlock's watching him, John can feel his gaze, see it out of the corner of his eye, and he swallows thickly, trying hard to control the steady rise of heat that stains his cheeks.

Sherlock lights another cigarette.

He's smoked it almost down to the filter before he speaks again, and he catches John mid swallow of another finger of whiskey.

"Would you be happier if you hadn't met me?"

John almost sprays the whiskey in Sherlock's face.

"What kind of idiot question is that?"

Sherlock's cheekbones stain an unnatural pink and he stammers, spinning the lighter round his fingers and refusing to look at John.

"I just wondered."

John opens his mouth, shuts it again. Stares hard at Sherlock as he tries to work out where the hell this conversation has come from and better yet where it might be going to, because currently he's completely lost. But he's stuck in a lift with no sign of an impending rescue and a bottle of whiskey, and those are the sort of situations that he supposes call for honesty.

"No."

Sherlock's eyes peer up through unnaturally long eyelashes. "No?"

"No."

"Oh."

John isn't sure if he's supposed to elaborate here, or if just monosyllables will suffice. He takes another long swallow of whiskey and throws caution to the wind. "I don't think I'd be here now if I hadn't met you."

"Well of course you wouldn't, you'd never be stuck in a lift if it wasn't for my idiot brother – "

John cuts him off mid-sentence, quietly over riding Sherlock's intense need to take everything at literal face value. "No, I meant, I don't think I'd _be_ _here_ if I hadn't met you."

Sherlock takes a moment to absorb and understand and when he does his eyes fly up to pin John against the wall. He can't look away when faced with that gaze that seems to strip him bare and know all there is to know about him in a breath. He can't seem to pull in a deep enough breath, can't remember how to swallow, can feel that gaze on every part of him.

Eventually Sherlock looks away; fingers fumble as he tries to pull out another cigarette. Can't seem to get the lighter to work, stumbling on the catch so many times that John takes pity on him and scoots across the floor, hand held out for the lighter. And Sherlock acquiesces, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he places the lighter in the palm of John's hand.

John takes a breath, flicks the catch and leans forward, touching the tip of the flame to Sherlock's cigarette. But he's not looking at the lighter, or the flame, or even the cigarette – can't seem to move beyond Sherlock's gaze which is so raw and vulnerable that it makes John's breath catch in his throat.

His hand drops, gaze drops, puts the lighter on the ground beside Sherlock and starts to scoot back to his spot by the wall, when he's stopped by long cool fingers resting gently atop his own.  
He freezes, can't stop looking at the differences between his and Sherlock's hands, can't stop watching as Sherlock carefully lifts his thumb and rubs it over John's scarred knuckles.

He swallows, opens his mouth to speak and Sherlock flinches away from him, suddenly on his feet, pacing as far away from John as the lift's confines will allow, and John is left with the sudden coldness where Sherlock's fingertips had lain.

John tilts his head back, watches the flurry of movements as Sherlock moves, prowls almost, practically inhaling the cigarette whole. It makes him feel dizzy, or perhaps that's the whiskey finally starting to take effect. It really is incredibly good whiskey, John should probably try and remember to thank Mycroft when he gets out of here. But regardless of the source, he needs Sherlock to stop moving.

He climbs carefully to his feet, watching Sherlock as he moves, knowing full well that when he's in a mood sudden movements could provoke Sherlock into anything, and he'd really rather not test what sort of anything Sherlock could do suspended a few hundred feet in the air.

John reaches out and snags Sherlock's coat sleeve in his fingers, tugging gently to get his attention, to try and move his focus back in again. And Sherlock whirls on him, pushing him against the lift wall, hands tightening in folds of John's shirt as his gaze darts across his face, searching, seeking – something.

"Why would Mycroft do this?" Sherlock is winding John's shirt tighter in his hands, worrying the fabric between his fingers.

"Do what?" John still isn't sure about the purpose of the entire exercise, but he can't seem to focus on it. His attention keeps getting caught in Sherlock's gaze, the soft curve of flushed throat above his collar, the tension at the corner of his lips.

"This." Sherlock shakes John lightly, as though 'this' is the most obvious thing in the world. "Try and test his theory."

"Theory? What theory?" John is trying valiantly to hold onto the thread of the conversation, but every time he breathes his chest hitches against Sherlock's and the friction makes him shiver. He shifts a little closer.

"His pet theory about us." Sherlock spits the words out in disgust and pushes John a little harder against the wall. John can feel a noise rising in his throat that feels suspiciously like a moan and bites it down, swallows it down and tries to keep his breathing even, tries not to think about the hard planes of Sherlock pressing him back against the wall.

"Wha – what theory?" He can't seem to keep his hands at his sides any longer, lifting one to trace the outline of Sherlock's hip above the waistband of his trousers.

Sherlock's gaze becomes heavier and John couldn't look away now if you paid him. Until Sherlock's tongue darts out nervously to wet his lips and John's gaze cannot help but drop.

"He thinks that we're denying – " Sherlock's voice has gone a little bit ragged at the edges, one of his hands pulling down John's shirt collar slightly and running a fingernail along the skin exposed.

John cannot help his shiver.

"Denying what?" He's not even sure what words are coming out of his mouth anymore – licks his lips, his mouth feels suddenly dry, the words sticking to the back of his throat. He curls the finger at Sherlock's waist into one of his belt loops and tugs gently, experimentally, closer.

"The inevitable." The words are a whisper across John's lips, nicotine and peppermint, and his brain shuts down. He shifts his weight forward, brings his head up a little and runs his tongue along the very corner of Sherlock's lips.

He stops. Both of them cease all movement and wait, lips so close together that as they exhale they brush lightly against the other. Then Sherlock turns his head slightly, a miniscule movement that brings him into John, and presses their lips together. A gentle brushing – once, twice – and John can't think beyond how soft Sherlock is, how gentle, and how incredible it feels.

He angles his head, nips gently at Sherlock's lower lip and swallows the resulting gasp in his mouth.  
Sherlock freezes, a sudden stillness that encapsulates his whole body, and John can feel him start to pull away, but that isn't on. Not after all this time, not now, not when they're finally doing something that feels so incredibly right.

He brings his hand up and tangles it in Sherlock's hair anchoring him in place, runs his tongue gently along the length of Sherlock's lower lip and then bites down, hard.  
And finally Sherlock is moving, shoving John back against the wall, hands pushing at his shirt, making small desperate noises that John can only take as more, oh god please more. John pushes back, sweeps his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and pulls desperately at Sherlock's shirt.

But Sherlock isn't having it, circles John's wrist with his hand and pins it roughly against the wall behind them and John can't help the moan that escapes this time, swallowed greedily by Sherlock's mouth. And God, Sherlock's mouth. Any thoughts John had about Sherlock being inexperienced are quickly being shot to pieces as Sherlock slowly takes him apart piece by piece and leaves John breathless, desperately trying to remain upright. It is nothing like kissing a girl, no softness between them, no gentle reassurances and slow languid kisses. This is pure want and need and desperate hard angles underneath his hands and Sherlock pushing him back as hard as he can until he can feel the ridges of the lift wall engrain themselves into his back.

He has to break apart, has to breathe, and he runs a trail of kisses down Sherlock's neck, pausing to lick the edge of his collar bone and bite down on his shoulder. It breaks apart whatever control Sherlock was still clinging to, and he is shoved back against the wall, hands everywhere, lips biting and kissing and reducing John to an incoherent mess of desire and want and need.

He twists the hand that Sherlock still has pinned and laces his fingers in between Sherlock's own, squeezing tightly, pulling harder, demanding more of everything. More of Sherlock's mouth on his. More of the desperate movements Sherlock is making to try and pull John's buttons undone, to try and expose more skin. He tightens his other hand in Sherlock's hair and pulls, drawing a ragged cry from Sherlock that makes him want to pull him apart and get as close as possible. It isn't enough, isn't nearly enough.

There's a ping as several of John's buttons land somewhere on the floor and then Sherlock's hands are on him, mapping out his chest, bumping down each ridge of his spine as he presses them even closer together.  
John skims a hand down Sherlock's back, uses his belt loops to pull him closer, dips one finger beneath the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and listens as the ragged breath pulled from Sherlock's lips becomes uneven.

The lift whirs to life beneath them, and Sherlock pulls back sharply, blinking almost sleepily at John.

"Whilst I am thrilled you've finally seen sense, I would really rather not have the next part recorded on security camera." Mycroft sounds completely unfazed at the scene unfolding in his lift, and Sherlock looks ready to spit.

John cannot help it, the laugh falls out before he even has chance to grab hold of the end of it, and Sherlock's look of anger turns to one of horror.

"No you idiot." John slides his hand up Sherlock's chest, curving it around his neck to draw him down for another searing kiss. "I'm laughing at Mycroft, not you."

Sherlock relaxes back against John and returns the kiss, a slower more exploratory one.

"Boys." Mycroft is starting to sound a little impatient at the display.

John breaks away just long enough to give the security camera the finger and smile, before pulling Sherlock back down again.


End file.
